GULDSTAD [clinks glasses with him].
And trust me, you're no whit the worse for that!
[To Falk.
You think the stream of life is flowing solely
To bear you to the goal you're aiming at--
But here I lodge a protest energetic,
Say what you will, against its wretched moral.
A masterly economy and new
To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure
Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you,
And suffer flocks and herds to trample through
Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure!
A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!

FALK.
Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear
That these four letters timidly express--
It beggars millionaires in happiness!
If I could be the autocrat of speech
But for one hour, that hateful word I'd banish;
I'd send it packing out of mortal reach,
As B and G from Knudsen's Grammar vanish.

STIVER.
Why should the word of hope enrage you thus?

FALK.
Because it darkens God's fair earth for us.
"Next year," "next love," "next life,"--my soul is vext